Category Archives: Garden

Oct4

The Space Between

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The hours of sunlight are short. Yet the days are long, and time seems to move fast. We can’t measure our days by the brief hours between dark and dark, as John Updike once called them. We  count the actual up-before-dawn, waking-and-productive, getting-things-done, go-to-sleep-long-after-the-sun-sets span of a daily schedule, to truly sum up how much we work and accomplish in a span of 24 hours in this season.

This quickened pace, this buzz of energy and activities, this hum in our veins … we knew it was coming. It rises like the frantic work of bees before winter. It’s part of the arrival of the school year or the busy professional season.

Autumn heralds a return to longer nights, cooler weather and more focus on work and academics. Summer slowed us down (if we were lucky) or at least changed our rhythms and tempted us to pause, linger, and have fun in the heat and light. Fall winds us up. We move faster to stay warm, or because we’re playing a sport, or because there’s something to get done once we arrive wherever we’re hastening to.

It’s the season of gathering-in. Harvest. We reap the benefits of slower times. Set aside whatever bounty we can for the lean times. Savor the brief time of abundance. Prepare for the long, frigid, brilliant months of winter that await us.

At the edge of October’s cooler presence, there’s pleasure in finding heat. It’s a dance of comfort and discomfort. We wear layers on the coldest days: sweaters and socks, hand-warmers and scarves. Then catch ourselves growing too hot, and peel off the layers again. Grow chilled and pull the protective gear back on. Then lean once more toward sources of warmth … a cozy fire, a steaming hot beverage, or an open door into a heated space.

We don’t stand still very long, because the persistent cold catches up. Amidst our rush and busy-ness, there is beauty in this changeable time of the year. It’s worth noticing: crisp and vivid.

If you stop a moment, and focus, every hair on your head, every follicle and nerve-ending, every brain cell and heartbeat, seems to stand at attention. Alive. Drinking it all in. Capturing flavors and views, burning them into memory.

Detail from a painting of County and East Streets in autumn.

Can harvest colors really be so bright? Do aromas hang so vividly in the air that you taste them on your tongue? Can sounds snap and retort so sharply? Does the tension between warmth and cold make you feel so aware of everything, so strung with tension and awareness?

Yes. Life often happens along the edges, margins and boundaries. In the metamorphosis. During the transformation. In the changes between one certainty and the next, between the point of departure and the place of arrival. Life vibrates here, now, in this transitional season, in the “space between.”

Don’t you want to stare off and step into, for just a moment, the changing hues – crimson, green and gilded — bright against a clear blue sky? Smudge your finger through the richness of long purple shadows cast by a distant sun in this season? Be robed in a swirl of golden leaves whirling and dancing in a high wind?  Breathe in, exhale out, then watch your own respirations hang there, if it’s cold enough? Extend your arms to the veiled world on a misty morning when droplets of water cling to the air itself? Watch the lights wink on in the darkness?

There is magic in this time of change: autumn. Yes, it’s busy. These schedules demand more of us.

This season also wakes us up. Reminds us that we’re here. Alive. Calls us to pay attention. To be grateful for what has passed away,  what remains here with us, and what awaits.

Sep23

Rock Wrangling

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Moving boulders? A classic New England tradition …

It’s like a gift, this day of serene blue sky, warm afternoon sunlight, crisp air and gold-crimson colors appearing in the edges of green foliage. A perfect autumn moment.

I just want to be in awe of it for a little bit. I spend so much time indoors on a computer, reading books, in a class, working with clients or otherwise staying busy, that I need “excuses” to get outside.

So what’s a good reason to go outside? Well, some people garden. Can’t say that’s my strength. Others run a few miles, cycle a few miles more, kayak or walk or just get outdoors to exercise. Pick apples. Go fishing.

What coaxed me outside the past few days?

  • A bonfire in the evening, enjoyed in the company of my husband and a friend or two. With dinner and drinks.
  • Reviewing renovations to the house and plans for the yard.
  • Walks downtown for hot beverages at Zumi’s and a seat along the river.
  • Best of all, our weekend rock-pushing escapade.

Attaching boulder to rear appendage of tractor

Huh? Rock-pushing? Were we suddenly trying to re-enact Greek-mythology? Recreating the eternal act of pushing a boulder up a hill, over and over, as a punishment in the underworld, like the king of ye olden classical days, Sisyphus?

Er, no. Just because I’m in divinity school doesn’t mean we’ve suddenly decided to live out the myths and stories of many religions. Nope. This was more along the lines of continuing the good old New England tradition of harvesting rocks from your field.

A few years ago, a neighbor of ours dug a large granite boulder out of his yard. It may once have served as a front step for his home, but didn’t work in that way anymore. We wisely (or foolishly) accepted his offer to take the boulder. So it was dropped off by a bobcat at the far end of our driveway. And there it sat, summer and winter, year after year, awaiting a purpose and a place in our small yard.

More recently, Chris’s colleague Matt acquired a tractor that can lift and move large landscape features. He was sure it could handle re-positioning the granite boulder. And he enjoys opportunities to use his machine (of course).

Boulder carried up Summer Street

So this past weekend, it was guys’ day with big machines in the backyard. They tried lifting it in the tractor’s bucket, but the boulder is just too big. Our friend Matt pushed it with the bucket about halfway down the drive, but that didn’t solve how to get it around the corner, up the street to the intersection of Summer and North Main Streets, where it was supposed to perch at the corner of our house.

After much problem-solving and the arrival of our other friend Just, the guys used chains to attach the boulder to the back end of the tractor, which is actually stronger. (It practically tipped the entire tractor when attached to the front bucket.) They had to tip the boulder up enough with the bucket end to wedge wooden blocks under it, lifting it off the ground, so they could run  chains beneath the rock. After extended experiments, the three determined guys found a way to wrap and secure it so that the tractor could lift the boulder about 6 inches off the ground. Then Matt hauled it carefully up the street, and nudged it into place.

It was like watching tractor ballet, for goodness sake!

Boulder arrives at Summer & North Main.

Between building bonfires and rock-wrestling with the help of a motorized wheeled vehicle with a lots of appendages and a powerful engine, it was like … well, yes, I’m going to just lay down a stereotype here … it seemed like “guy Nirvana.”

And you know what? I put down the textbooks, stopped outlining my paper on the story of Joseph as told in both Genesis and the Qur’an, and stepped outdoors. I was out there with the three guys, snapping photos, watching traffic, and participating from a helpful (aka, safe) distance.

By the end of the rock wrangling, we were all grinning from ear to ear. What a crazy way to spend a few hours out in the autumn sunlight! It’s a novel pastime, that’s for sure

Can’t say I expect to ever have another afternoon quite like it. But if you get the chance to move a boulder or two in your life … you just gotta do it, don’t you think?

Nudging a boulder with a frontloader bucket. Or whatever it’s called …

Sep15

Apples, Corn and Dogs

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Just paying attention. Autumn in New England rustles just outside my door.

About 10 days ago, I saw the first pale leaves flutter down and skitter along the sidewalk. Swirl upward again in circles. Come to rest.

Pumpkin seeds to be baked.

Now small splashes of color burst from the green canopy of trees. Auburn. Amber. Gilt. Fire. Fall sets the horizon alight with her bright palette, in our part of the natural world.

Local orchards are thronged with tourists enjoying an idyllic weekend: filling bags with apples and other fruit. Visiting geese and farm animals. Taking the hay ride out to the low-hanging trees. Plucking among the many choices of crisp, ripe apples. Splurging on cider and donuts, debating about recipes and ingredients for pies or cobbler.

Local farms come to life at harvest season. They’ve set up their corn mazes! Labyrinths wind through taller-than-head-height stalks; these puzzling trails beckon to adventurous folk. Get lost in fields of green and gold! Find your way out again. It’s even more fun, and a little alarming, in the dark.

Early Jack O Lanterns

Our daughter Sarah and her friend brought home hefty pumpkins to carve. Admired curling stems. Cut off the lids. Scooped out the insides. Carved faces. Baked the seeds. Just to pass some time and connect with the season.

Farmers’ markets continue to hum with activity. Jams and honey line the shelves. Shares from Appleton Farms bristle with crops. Yet the countdown is coming; soon the barns will be quiet and the staff busy planning for next year.

Just now, though? The vaulted sky is bright blue. Branches arch overhead with changing hues from green to crimson. Orange gourds dot sloping verdant lawns.

And a neighbor drives past with the family dog. The dog’s head hangs out the passenger window, ears blowing back, tongue lolling to one side, gulping in the fresh air, grinning a canine grin.

That describes how I feel today. Drinking it all in. Enjoying this moment in time.

Aug8

Among the Overgrowth: Cilantro

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Another week of picking up the share at Appleton Farms. You’ve heard me discuss the sometimes sacred and spiritual nature of these visits to the CSA. Other times it’s just a chore to cross off your to-do list.

Depends on whether you go out into the fields to pick, because most of the magic happens during the intersection of human action, plant eccentricities, and whatever critters might be keeping you company out there (birds, butterflies, bees, beetles, mosquitoes, and mice and other scurrying rodents, to name a few).

Some weeks, the skies are slung low with clouds or lightning tears across the sky, and we don’t go into the fields to pick. Other days, it’s so hot and dusty, you wonder if you’re sane to consider going out among the low rows of crops, to bend and stoop, snip and pluck, filling pint containers or bags with your harvest of flowers, herbs and (some weeks) vegetables.

This week, we gathered herbs and flowers. Along the way, we learned a lesson about persistence.

Specifically, we walked among the rows, hunting for cilantro. Its familiar name was missing among the stakes labeled by such savory titles as mint, oregano, parsley, thyme, dill and basil. The CSA uses signage to make it clear where each crop is grown, row by row, and where to pick. Yet we couldn’t find it. We quartered the field, back and forth, systematic, but undirected. No luck. No cilantro stakes.

Of course, we might have tried looking for it under other names. Did you know it’s also called coriander, Chinese parsley or dhania? (In our culture, when we speak of cilantro, we often mean the fresh green leaves. Its seeds are identified as the coriander.) It grows commonly in regions from Europe and northern Africa to parts of Asia, and now in North America; it’s a common ingredient in many international cuisines. Possibly the most widely used herb in the world. As eloquently stated by a writer for culinate.com, “For just about anyone who grew up in the diverse culinary traditions of Latin America, the Caribbean, Portugal, northern Africa, the Middle East, the South Asian subcontinent, and most of Asia, cilantro tastes like home.” The same lacey green fronds, regardless of label, add a biting zest to all sorts of dishes.

Another confession. I hunted for cilantro, though I have no intention of eating it. I’m a member of the population that doesn’t like its flavor. Yes, we come in two groups: like or dislike. You can’t be in-between, when it comes to a preference or distaste for cilantro.

In fact, the plant’s flavor is actually a polarizing debate among “foodies.” It’s loved or hated, nothing less. This topic has been covered by publications such as the Wall Street Journal and Smithsonian Magazine, and inspired movements such as ihatecilantro.com. For those who love  and eat it, because of its bright note of flavor in any dish, it’s hard to imagine why you’d turn it away. Cilantro-haters are often accused of being picky eaters. Yet there’s some evidence that the aversion to cilantro’s flavor is a genetic mutation; some tastebuds are just destined to revolt against it, because it transforms into a different chemical experience in measurable (but minority) percentages in any population. Cilantro-dislikers describe it as tasting like soap or hairspray, but to me it has the tang of aluminum. Ick. And I’m in good company. Per the same articles cited above, Julia Child felt the same way; she disliked both cilantro and arugula.

So I was walking through the field, hunting for an herb I don’t even enjoy, because my friend wanted some for her cooking plans. The whole point of the day seemed to become the triumph of finding a small bouquet of cilantro.

Finally, instead of giving up and returning wearily to the car after multiple hikes in and out of the field, we asked a farmhand. At first, she said there wasn’t any.

Then she winced sympathetically. “I know frustrating, isn’t it? We’re just getting tomatoes in, and we’ve had cilantro all season, and just when you want both, we’re running low. We planted another crop, so we hope there’s some later on this month.” Finally she added, “Well, we took down the cilantro sign, because it’s mostly all picked, and what’s left is hard to find because of the weeds. But if you walk past the dill, halfway down the row, and push aside enough weeds, you might find some.”

Back out into the fields we walked. Toward the weeds. And what they hid in their depths.

Now mind you, I have made a case for weeds. In my “garden” (dry, desert-like side yard), there are more weeds than healthy domesticated species. Spiky, tall, persistent and oddly lovely. Striking from my point of view, anyway. (You are welcome to your own opinion, of course.)

We turned right at the small feathery fronds of dill (also almost all picked and gone, also unlabeled, but visible if you knew where to look). Hiked beyond the knee-high growth of grass blades and vibrant weeds. Paused. Pushed aside leafy wild plants, seeking domestic satisfaction. Found the pungent leaves and stems of the cilantro. Worked our way down the row, reaching among the growth of unwanted plants, for the ones we did seek. Filled a small bag with cilantro, to use in cooking

The lesson? For me, it was the promise of finding what you want, if you don’t give up. If you look enough. If you go back once, twice and thrice. If you ask for directions. If you persist past the overlooked, overgrown appearance of the row. If you hunt among the weeds. You just might discover what you’re seeking.

And the worst case scenario, after time spent hunting among weeds and wildflowers? Even if you don’t find cilantro, you’ve gained the benefit of time spent in the sun and elements. Along the way, you’ve let go of the other stressful parts of life for a little while. It’s as good as yoga, as far as I am concerned, being out in the fields, picking part of your share.

This time, we harvested sunflowers and cilantro to be used in my friend’s favorite recipe for Thai vegetable spring rolls. And as I do every year, I’ll try a bite, always hopeful that I’ve somehow been converted to a cilantro-lover. But that’s another adventure … Today was just the journey of gathering the leftover cilantro from its exile out in the field, its row unlabeled, overgrown by weeds.

Aug8

Wild Berry Season

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My neighbors Hugh and Gary were recently out of town, and gave us permission to pick raspberries from the bushes around their home. They’re called canes, and they actually have thorns, so you have to pick with care.

Now if you are diligent, you may accumulate enough of these ripe wild fruits to concoct something sweet and filling. A dessert. A pie. A crumble. Something scrumptious.

Or you could just eat them as you plucked them. Save a few for one more serving at home.

The best intentions in the world cannot transform a half-pint of berries (because you ate as many as you saved) into a pie. So you might as well just finish them off.

Maybe you think I have lazy afternoons to stroll around, picking berries. Hah. Three of us ventured among the raspberry canes, plucking and slurping, on a late weekend afternoon, between chores and errands, because the enticement was too great not to go. And we didn’t want the offer to go to waste.

And yes, we each wanted an excuse to linger in the golden light and green boughs for a brief part of the day. To escape from the dirty, messy, sweaty tasks that had driven all of us earlier in the day … to remember that it’s summer, that life is bursting to be discovered and savored, and this was our chance.

Berries like this have a short time in the sun and the summer. Weeks, maybe. Birds and mammals will feast on them. We must compete for their juicy burst on our tongues.

The best ones hide, tucked beneath the dappled shade of overlapping leaves, among the thorns and daggers, so that you have to bend, cock you head to one side, and maybe even double over to peer from another angle, then reach thoughtfully through the gauntlet of “prickers” (as we used to call them when we were kids) before you discover the best cluster of ripe ones.

There’s a specific sensory memory I have, brought to “living color” with the scent of the ripe berries, and the sensation of the summer sun hot on my shoulders as I reach among the branches and leaves, into the purple-blue shadows, to find the sun-kissed promise of berries awaiting my tentative fingertips. I did this as a child.

And my mother always promised to make a pie, if I picked enough. But I never did. I nibbled. I sampled. I slurped and snacked. I brought home enough for a small bowl with a little milk … because that’s how we ate them, back then. Never enough for a pie.

Now? I’d eat them with oatmeal, or topping some of Meryl’s homemade ice cream. And I would taste my own long-outgrown childhood, and realize that some of life’s pleasures continue even into our later adult decades.

This week, my friend Meryl hiked up the hill while I kept her daughter company. She returned with enough blackberries to make a bursting-at-the-lattice-crust-seams pie. You can see some of the remains here …because it didn’t last too long, once it came out of the oven.

Childhood. Adulthood. Berry-picking. Some parts of summer, fleeting as they are, give us back the magic of life.

Jul11

Belonging

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Yesterday I returned to Appleton Farms for the week’s share pick-up. And some harvesting of green beans and basil in the field.

Interestingly, one of my friends had mused about the nature of the CSA shares. Admitted that the whole arrangement seems exclusive.

My response? It began as a conversation, but I also did more research. Now I’m exploring the subject here, with you.

At first, I just wanted to say NO. Exclusive? Such an idea defied my self-image.

Me? My family? My friends? Of course we don’t belong to anything exclusive.

That’s not who I am. Who my family is. Who my community can be. We’re inclusive, I think. Because we want to be, and also because it’s what we can afford. My kids attended public schools. We’re taking out loans for college, because there’s no hidden savings account or trust fund to pay for it. Some of our friends are well-endowed,  others live below the poverty line. My family belongs to the YMCA, not a fancy gym or fitness club. I wait months to get a haircut, so there’s room in the budget for it. We eat leftovers. We deliberately belong to a church that’s open and affirming, welcoming to all people. And of course, no amount of virtue or wholesomeness has ever protected any of us from sorrow or loss; we’ve all had our share of that. I don’t feel like someone who has a lot of extras, I’m not pampered or particularly safe from need or want.

On the other hand, we’re not desperate. We have a home and food, water and healthcare. I have a freelance career and a chance at education. My husband is intelligent, emotionally available, talented, healthy and supportive. My surviving daughter is graduated from high school, going to college, chasing her dreams. My community is creative, provocative, close-knit and as varied as possible, given our town’s demographics. So there’s all that.

So the idea of the CSA as exclusive? Me belonging to something exclusive?! Hah. No way.

Then I considered it again. If you’re looking at the CSA from the outside in, as someone who’s on the waiting list, or doesn’t even think they can afford the price, it may look different. If you don’t …can’t … live nearby, in this region of green lands and open spaces … if you reside in a paved and concrete neighborhood, where the only green things are weeds and traffic lights? It may seem … entitled … to belong to the CSA.

Admittedly, it’s a privilege to have the Appleton shares. But also the CSA shares might feel like they’re only available to privileged people. Like we all belong to a closed club.

After all, Appleton Farms, and any other CSA for that matter, is not a farm stand where you can drive up and pluck what you want from the offerings, and pay-as-you-go. Instead, you buy your rather expensive share at the beginning of the season. You’re committed ahead of time. And in return, the farm fulfills the contract by raising a variety of crops that will offer a well-rounded selection each week, June-October.

That model also means that you can’t just raise your hand and “join in.” There’s a waiting list to acquire a share. Since the farm only supports an estimated volume of crops, they don’t open up chances for new shares every year. You have to sign up and wait awhile to have a membership in the CSA.

As a business model, this works. But it could come across like a gated community, couldn’t it?

Also, the CSA shares are pricey. You can argue that across the span of months, the cost of the share and the amount of fresh produce that you receive will average out. But up front? It’s a lot of money. And a risk. Sometimes, certain crops fail, because that’s the nature of agriculture and vulnerability to weather and infestations, so you might have to supplement some vegetable types by buying them at the grocery store anyway. (Like the year without Appleton’s tomatoes, due to blight.) Realistically, to absorb the cost, some folks split one CSA share two or more ways, because families cannot afford the full amount or use the quantities of produce included in a single share each week.

Plus, you have to invest some time in getting your share. Drive out to the farm to pick it up. And ideally, spend time in the fields, picking more.

Of course, for practical reasons, you probably live close to the farm, or it wouldn’t be very accessible to collect it each week. So this CSA membership isn’t easily available to people who live in a more urban environment.

For all those reasons, the CSA can seem likes it’s a closed community, a resource for people with disposable time and income.

So what’s the response to this concern?

  • First, every share is supporting a non-profit agricultural enterprise — Trustees of Reservations –  that is modeling sustainable farming practices, using many of what they call heirloom-style (non genetically-modified or mass-produced) crops and traditional livestock species. This model is used for development and helps to test and exemplify the viability of such methods.
  • Secondly, the Farm becomes a hands-on teaching center. Its programs educate new generations of farmers and environmentalists, as well as youth, and also the general public.
  • Next, the Trustees make parts of their land and resources available to other organizations such as The Food Project, for growing fresh vegetables that can be made available in urban farmers’ markets. The Food Project grows its crops with a youth team that is being trained and educated, providing access to open space and gardens for at-risk kids who aren’t typically connected to the whole process of how food gets from “field to fork.”  It brings farming models into urban areas like Beverly, Lynn and Boston. And donates some produce to “hunger relief organizations on the North Shore.” By partnering with organizations like The Food Project, the Trustees leverage their impact in communities where they don’t have a specific footprint. They make their produce and resources available in different markets; they serve additional populations.
  • Notably, Appleton Farms provides some fresh produce to local food pantries. And sometimes has extra produce available at local farmer’s markets. They address a social responsibility to neighbors in need.
  • The Trustees also work with teen volunteers and paid crew. Some work are on the farm itself. Some spend time in Metropolitan Boston or other properties, and gain experience keeping trails open and helping to care for open spaces, farms, parklands and historic properties.

Participating in an Appleton Farms CSA share? It makes all of these initiatives, the ones that I described above, possible.  It allows farming to be accessible, educational, environmentally-friendly and sustainable on many levels. That’s the bonus.

Then there’s the selfish pleasure — immediate and individual — of strolling into the barn full of newly-harvested greens and vegetables, opening up a bag, checking the recipe board, and filling your sack. Putting on a hat, carrying your bag and scissors out to the field, and picking and snipping more herbs and veggies for your own table. I’ve already extolled the benefits of this experience: the goodness of the crops themselves, the promise of a shared meal and communal experience, the chance to put away from the freshness for later in the year, and the simple spiritual boost of being connected to the earth, the fields, the cycle of life and the world.

Imagine that by owning a CSA share, you are also creating jobs for at-risk youth and exposing teens from your own town and many other communities and cultures to opportunities in the area of farming, environmental stewardship and open space. Add that you’re educating the general public. Participate in a large effort to develop sustainable forms of farming and land conservationfor the future. Know that you’re feedings hundreds of families, some through the shares they own, others through farmers’markets or food pantries.

Probably I romanticize this experience. And its rewards. I’m sure I do. But I believe in it, too.

Of course, if you work in the fields twelve hours a day, six or seven days a week, for low pay and no benefits, it might not be fun. It could be sheer labor, and lacking in much of the spiritual energy that I find in my one-or-two hours a week of agricultural adventure. That’s another part of the benefit of the CSA; members are buffered from the hardest part of farming, the year-round grind and tedium and labor of it, because if we had to put in all that time and effort, we likely wouldn’t participate. The effort is shared instead.

Of course, some of you volunteer at Appleton. You get a firsthand feel for the more stressful part of farming. Some of you put in several hours every week. Others at special times, like during the garlic harvestthis weekend, getting hot and tired, sweaty and dirty, in the fields with the paid farm crew. It’s not all easy-peezy, belonging to a volunteer-driven organization.

Admittedly, even the effort of claiming your full share includes going into the fields, and it’s not always all fun. It requires bending and straightening, over and over. Physical exertion. Mess. Until you’re perspiring and exhausted, swatting away mosquitoes, wrinkling your nose at the overripe or partly-nibbled remains of leaf and vegetable on the ground where other critters have shared a taste of the harvest. Maybe bringing along irritable family members to help, and trying to keep them motivated. All in order to pick what you’d like to bring home.

Yet I’m usually relaxed when I leave Appleton Farms. For many reasons. I’ve been outside, away from my computer. Maybe I saw some friends. I connected with something bigger than myself (I say this every time, but it’s still true).

Sure, every visit isn’t prayerful, not if you’re racing storm clouds or debating with cranky companions (like small children). You’re grimy. Sore. Stinky.

Yet week after week, we bring home a bucket of flowers, a bag of herbs, and a load of vegetables. We come and go with friends, so it’s social. Usually, by the time we’re done , we’re also smiling.

The CSA? Often once you own a share, you divide it with other households to make dollars stretch, to spread out the time and labor of collecting produce, and to be efficient in use of the abundance. You wait for your chance. Then you extend yourself to afford it, to make it viable. And every dollar and hour  invested, in order to belong to this sustainable community, is making that bounty available, in other ways, to other neighborhoods, families and people.

When you know what your individual farm share supports, it’s not exclusionary. It’s amazingly accessible and inclusive. It goes a long way to provide value for you, your family, your community and others whom you’ll never meet.

Yes, belonging to Appleton Farms CSA is also a privilege.

Jul8

Pick Your Own

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I promised myself I’d learn how to recognize and cook one new vegetable every year. See a lean coarse stalk, a leafy feathery head, or rotund soil-crusted root, and know it for what it is. Recognize it as beautiful and tasty, once it’s been scrubbed and chopped, or the outer layer peeled back to reveal its tender interior. The work of a sharp paring knife, and a sense of each plant’s purpose, reveals that each vegetable has its own sweet taste, sharp bite, or clean verdant flavor. And plenty of goodness and nutrition to impart to us.

Why do I care? Me? ‘Cause I’m not a gourmet cook. And I’m a most reluctant gardener. (In fact, I don’t garden. I just don’t.)

Gail with dill from the pick your own part of the Appleton Farms CSA fields

I care, because we have a share at Appleton Farms, the Trustees of Reservations’ CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). It’s also the oldest continuously operated farm in the United States. And it’s a model for sustainable agriculture. Hundreds of families have shares, and receive the bounty of the fields from June into October, with access to a winter supply of vegetables before the end of the year. Plus there’s a dairy store and a small selection of meat (which may appall some readers, but it’s part of this farming model) and access to other locally-made produce, such as honey or bread!

Much of the CSA share is planted, cultivated, and harvested by staff, interns and volunteers on the farm. We don’t have to go out and put seeds in the earth, turn the soil, pull weeds, water row upon row of plants, or participate in the other labor included in bringing a single plant to leaf and table. Instead, shareholders enter the cool interior of the lofty barn, and fill a single large bag with produce already plucked from the earth. We walk among wooden bins overflowing with leafy cabbage and lettuce, chard and carrots, beets and turnips.

So my goal to learn new vegetables and make a meal of them? So far, so good. Well, I learned to identify kohlrabi, which is in the broccoli family according to my friend Meryl, with its bulbous root and leafy stalks; it is good diced small into coleslaw or salad, for instance. A few years ago, I learned to appreciate dark green kale, whether its chopped and massaged into a tasty salad or simmered with sausage in a Portuguese kale soup recipe. I’ve made pesto and fresh salads from the farm’s selection of basil and tomatoes (tomatoes aren’t ready yet, fyi).

Another part of the experience is picking. We wear boots and hats, sunscreen and probably insect repellent, then go out into the fields with scissors and bag, to pick whatever has grown ripe. We come back with snow peas and basil, oregano and snap peas right now. Many herbs, actually.

Again, do I really know what I’m doing? No. But I’ve learned.

Sigh. Or remembered back, to childhood when our family depended on the produce from a large home garden to supplement the meal on the table. My mother, who worked fulltime, nevertheless became adept at canning, freezing and storing produce in ways that it would last through the winter months when our family income was stretched too thin to heat a large drafty house and buy enough food for a family of six, too. As a child, contribution to the garden? Weed. Pick. Shell. Knock beetles and other unwanted infestations, critters that vied for the same green leaves and juicy crop we needed, off the leaves.

Back then it was a burden. A task. A necessity.

Miri gathering herbs at Appleton

Now I go out into the field, often with a friend, and choose which rows I’ll walk down. Bend over and search among the pale green vines, coated in dry earth, for promising sugar snap peas that aren’t too fat or leathery. Snip tassels of dill, bouquets of chive and mint. Visit the flower garden, and bring home a few lacy heads of yarrow, a flower whose name I didn’t know until this week.

Usually, just like waking up for 5am yoga, I debate with myself about the merits of getting out to the farm for PYO (pick your own) moments. I’d be happy enough to take just the share already picked for me, and miss out on the other juicy and floral opportunities. Wouldn’t I?

Okay, okay, I know there’s benefit to the pick your own crops. I’d be disappointed not to enjoy them. Or not to make the effort to partake in that part of the CSA.

So I put away the bag of vegetables already neatly harvested for me, and head out to the fields. Once I’m out among the knee-high rows of early summer crops, kneeling down, sometime alone and sometimes chatting companionably with other shareholders, adults and children, it’s a form of healing and meditation. Something loosens up and gives way.

Out in the fields, amazingly, I grow relaxed. Feel connected.

The presence of the natural world and the character of cultivated land surrounds me. I hear a chorus of birds, some startled out of hiding in tall stalks a few rows away, warbling or crying. Catch the furtive rush of small mammals who share the fields with us. Brush away the drone of a curious insect. Hear a tractor in the distance. Smell the up-close pungency of manure from the dairy pastures.

Pluck. Snap. Snip.

I’m learning to know these shapes and scents, these green and colorful plants, by their leggy vine or bushy shape, their pale flowers and crisp fruition. I have plans for what I’ll make with them. Some fresh. Some baked or stored for later in the year.

Yarrow from the flower garden at Appleton Farm’s CSA

And when I leave the fields? I feel beautiful myself, outside and inside. Like the cultivated crop I am coming to know, one name and recipe at a time, I may be a little dusty and droopy on the exterior, until scrubbed and freshened up. Once peeled back a bit, and bared to the light? Inside of me there is a hard nub of persistence and life, something too tough, bitter or stubborn to bite and swallow, but also a crisp or soft part that is tender, flavorful, nourishing. Some part of myself that’s willing to give way and be made into something new.

In its way, spending an hour or so in the fields at Appleton is a form of prayer. A letting go. Connecting with self and something greater.

My bag is filled with the bounty I’ve chosen or picked. With the promise of meals to come, experiences to share with family and friends as we savor these flavors and times together. And my heart is at ease, reminded of a part of life that it’s easy to miss, either because we don’t have a reason to go into the fields, or we just barter away the chance by shrugging our shoulders and saying it doesn’t matter, really, does it?

It matters. It does. That’s one more thing I’ve come to recognize – and name, for myself anyway — in the shadows of the barn and the broad, green expanse of the CSA fields.

Jul5

Paying Attention

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Elm branches, bare of leaves.

Independence Day in Ipswich was many things. It was a day for taking a break, or catching up. Yet its bright colors and loud popping sounds, its firework skies and marching band day, were also about paying attention.

In the morning, our town — like most communities, I imagine, in America on this special holiday — flashed with flags, buntings, and ribbons in red, blue and white. A community parade passed by our street with band, children on bikes or in wagons or walking, costumed historical figures, antique cars, home-made floats, a pony cart, safety vehicles with lights flashing, scout troops, clubs, and businesses in uniform, all traveling the route from school to town hall. Each group paused before the festive judge’s stand, but the framework was inclusive and egalitarian, so everyone had a great time participating, and each child and adult, even occasional dogs in costumes, had a chance to be noticed, appreciated, and applauded by bystanders along the way.

Along the 4th of July parade route, people stopped to read poems and salute the mighty elm tree at the intersection of County and East Street. It is being dismantled by the town, its overhanging limbs already amputated, since it has died. In response, local poets have written words, and Mary Oliver’s tender When I Am Among the Trees, is also hung from the tree trunk by a purple ribbon. Understand, of course, that American Elms were an iconic shape on our landscape, and were decimated by a disease during the last century. Ours was a rare survivor, much-loved and revered. An informal service is scheduled for early next week to honor its presence and passing.

During the day, many people made time for long walks and boating, for beach and backyard cookouts, or yes, for working at the office or in the garden, using the valuable chance to catch up on deadlines and chores. By the end of all the bustle and business of the day, many of us had a chance to gather with family and friends.

In the evening, we didn’t have formal fireworks in town, though booms and blasts, sparkles and whoops let us know that many neighborhoods managed their own private parties. Instead nature provided its own display: lightning split the sky in branching and terrible beauty, while thunder rolled louder than any explosions. We sat in the backyard, bonfire burning, embers flying upward, marshmallows melting, and watched the heavens light up. We didn’t need clandestine supplies from across the state line, or even a pops concert with thumping music, to stir our hearts.

Our own world, on Independence Day, moved us over and over. Reminded us that liberty has a sacred beginning in the hearts and minds of people. We are the sum of something more than just individual lives, whether we feel kinship through ideas or dreams or communities or faiths or natural settings. Our patriotic parade, which paused to pay homage to a beloved tree, was a reminder of this bond. From the barren arch of elm branches that survived a devastating illness for many decades, to the might of the summer storm in the skies overhead, we are connected to something bigger than ourselves.

I borrowed a little inspirational book called The Things Trees Know by Douglas Wood. It talks about lessons we can learn from trees like the elm at the end of East and County. A paraphrase from one of my favorite parts of this little book was that like trees, we grow “ … from the inside out.” And I will close with the poem by Mary Oliver. It was the first text hung by a ribbon to the trunk of the elm, fluttering like a pale leaf on a great tree that cannot burst out green and living anymore. It reminds us to pay attention to the passing of this mighty life from our landscape, and to honor the possibilities within our own lives, too.

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

~ Mary Oliver ~

Jun8

Looking for Thunder, Found Sunlight Instead

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This week thunder rolled through the skies. Rain fell. Some days were dark, wet, and shivery cold.

I searched for interesting poetry or reflections on thunder, and found many thoughtful verses by some of my favorite writers, including allusions to inspiration and faith by Emily Dickinson, natural and spiritual musings by Mary Oliver, as well as disturbing and multi-layered images by TS Eliot.

And then I came across a collection of weather-related poetry, and rediscovered a children’s song called Mr. Sun. And yes, although all of those earlier wondrous thunderous poems would move or challenge us, this simple lyric was its own gift.

After all, wasn’t it fitting, that as I researched thunder, I found sunlight? I accept it as a little tickle from Jessie. So I thought I’d share it.

Mr. Sun

Oh Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. golden Sun,
Please shine down on me.
Oh Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. golden Sun,
Hiding behind a tree.
These little children are asking you
To please come out so
We can play with you.
Oh Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. golden Sun,
Please shine down on,
Please shine down on,
Please shine down on me!

Why pause over this particular song? It isn’t elegant. Or metaphorical. It is simply a child’s song, and says what it means.

I share it, because both my children learned this song during their time at preschool at Cuvilly Earth & Arts Center. And inside it germinated seeds of hope that supported us through some of our toughest moments of life.

Sarah sang this song with the students in her class at the end of the year, just before summer started and the season broke open with all kinds of possibilities. Jessie’s attendance at Cuvilly was brief, but she learned and loved this song, and sang it to herself often. Sometimes she sang it at bedtime, when she was afraid of bad dreams.

They were each so young at Cuvilly, wide-eyed and round-faced, excited to be attending a “big girl” school, complete with indoor classrooms, outdoor playground and gardens, and a barn full of animals. It was a nurturing environment. It still is.

Little did we know that what our children learned in preschool might be the most primary lessons, the first tools, the most immediate resources they would use as they faced life-and-death situations.

Even now, I would affirm this significance for Jessie and Sarah’s preschool, kindergarten, 1st and 2nd grade teachers. As well as their spiritual mentors, Sunday School teachers,  tutors,  swimming teachers, theatrical director,  dance teachers, karate instructors, soccer coaches, Girl Scout leaders, and many others who influenced each of them. Both Jessie, diagnosed with cancer, and her older sister Sarah, whose family’s life and wellbeing were at stake, called upon the resources they’d accumulated at a young age.

Jessie had so many guides and teachers across what spanned, altogether, not even a decade. They helped her hold onto the fullness of life, and all the vibrant parts of herself. Their mentorship allowed her to experience the adventures of a little girl growing up, not just being a child living with leukemia.

I’ll repeat this point. The first internal tools Jessie used to cope with cancer, its infectious complications, and treatment? She learned those by the age of 3. She added many more resources to her toolkit over the course of 6 years. All the lessons she ever experienced, she learned before the age of 9.

Though she was young, Jessie, like many intuitive young cancer patients, knew she might not live. She had several close calls over the years. So she talked about death, faith and her beliefs about heaven with our minister Rebecca. And sometimes with friendly, blue-vested volunteers at the hospital. She didn’t discuss them with us, I think because she needed private relationships in which to explore these difficult thoughts, without exposing them to our immediate family.

Finally, in intensive care, when Jessie was intubated, connected to a ventilator and several pumps and monitors, when her world was artificial and claustrophobic, as she was hooked up to lines and tubes in so many places she could hardly use her hands, and the lights were on most of the time, while sounds and stimuli made it hard to rest or relax … when she was dependent on machines for every breath … she asked for songs that had sunshine in them. During a pastoral visit, she specifically asked Rebecca to sing about “sunshine and col0r.”

One of the songs was What A Wonderful World as performed by Louis Armstrong, which still makes us weep (and smile) each time we hear it. Another was Mr. Sun.

Jessie needed sunshine. And where did she find it? In part, through a children’s song she learned at the age of 3 at Cuvilly Preschool.

Years after she first learned it, that song could push away darkness and bad dreams, and even the mortal reality of ICU. It burned bright in her mind and heart. It conjured up goodness, healthiness, and the healing nature of sunlight and school. It helped her escape, at least for a little bit, while she closed her eyes and listened to Rebecca’s gentle voice lift over the beep, hiss and thump of machines.

Sometimes when you’re surrounded by challenging environments or emotions, you need a really good slice of contrast. Like hope when you’re filled with despair. The tang of salt and savory flavors when everything tastes too sweet. Or laughter when you’re deep inside an angry-scared-sad maelstrom.

And this week? Like sunshine when you’re in the middle of a thunderstorm.

If you cannot have it literally, you can dream it and claim it through imagination and spirit … in stories, poetry and other creative expressions. Sometimes in the words of a simple preschool song.

“Oh Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. golden Sun,
Please shine down on me …”

Jun7

One Person’s Weed, Another’s Wildflower

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Okay, I admit I’m a reluctant gardener. I only take up mulch, shovel, spade, gloves and wheelbarrow a few times a year. And do a half-assed job of digging, weeding, and mulching. It’s enough for me, though.

I feel practically righteous when I’m done, because I got my hands dirty, handled soil, turned over worms, exposed and sheltered roots, plucked out wild plants, maybe even cut back domestic ones.

Other people extol the joys of gardening. The therapeutic qualities of yanking weeds and dead-heading blooming plants.

I get it. It’s actually Biblical. Or universally spiritual as a wholesome and metaphorical activity.

But me? I used to assign my indoor plants at work to friends, gals whom we called “Plant Aunts,” because they would care for the flowers that green-dysfunctional co-workers like me received and failed to tend. They withered at a financial office in downtown Boston, 28 floors off the ground, where there was no natural access to the elements that make plants happy.

Until I handed them over to the foster care system of “Plant Aunts.” My friend Johanne used to water them. Give them light. Tend them. Nurture them. Talk to the. Love them

When I stopped work in Boston, I bequeathed my plants to Johanne and other colleagues who could really help them flourish. I knew my limits, and I liked those spiky lush plants, healthy and glossy under the gentle ministrations of my friends. I preferred them green and growing to brown and dead.

Today was my annual start at gardening. I went to Gordon’s Florists in Ipswich and selected, with much advice from the Gordons’ staff and the considered input of my friend Miri, some drought-resistant flowering plants to plunk down, in their pots, on the Summer Street side of our house.

Mind you, we have a tiny yard, but it is lush with greenery. Ferns. Vines. Towering maples. Shaggy old apple tree. Clover

The front of our house is verdant with Hostas and various kinds of ivy, which is my umbrella term for leafy vin-ish plants of all kinds, because they actually have a proper name that doesn’t involve ivy, but I forget what it is.

But that one Southern-exposed side? It has a few shallow inches of sandy soil. No easy access to water. And direct burning exposure to sunlight all day long. It’s like leaving a forest and entering a desert, when you turn the corner from North Main to Summer Street

Some of the drought-resistant species added last year, recommended and planted under the supervision of Denise King, have survived. Even some of those burned to nothing in last summer’s record-setting waves of heat.

Yet many have come back. Silver. Green. Optimistic. Some have sent out shoots and spread across the dry, nutrient-lacking strip of yard that borders Summer Street and our antique house. As I said, it’s arid and barren, much like a desert.

Today I laid down a new layer of dark mulch. Yanked weeds. Left behind other leggy plants that might be wild, or might be ones that I planted. (I don’t know which.)

I added some potted flowers for color. (I thought they were Begonias, but maybe geraniums? I can’t remember.) Then I edged the area with stones.

During the afternoon, people walked or drove past, and admired the wheelbarrow full of refuse and the garden full of colorful blooms. I asked for opinions. Weeds? Not-weeds? We were uniformly uncertain.

At the end of the day, my back ached. But the yard looked nice. And my first day … maybe my only day … of gardening for this year was done.

Sure, I cleared away old stalks. Clipped dead blooms off plants. Uprooted invasive species. Made room for new growth. Healthy beginnings. So many metaphorical activities.

But for once?  Maybe I was just gardening.

Make of it what you will. It was satisfying. Healing. It resulted in beauty and order, when so much around me is chaos and demolition.

I showered. Scrubbed away the dirt. Went back outside to admire the imperfectly-landscaped patch of earth I’d fussed over all afternoon. And sighed, fulfilled by what I accomplished.

I’m pretty sure there are a lot of delighted weeds in my patch of earth. Wild seeds growing contentedly among domestic plants. To me, it’s all green and happy. Or as Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh (A.A. Milne) once said, “Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.”